


Beggar at the Feast

by eternaleponine



Series: Penny Dreadful Happily Ever After AU [1]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1945056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because I happily subscribe to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelveteenThestral/pseuds/VelveteenThestral">VelveteenThestral's</a> Happily Ever After AU where Sir Malcolm dies and Mina lives and Victor looks at his life and his choices and makes better ones.</p><p>A follow up to their story, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862142">Opium Dreams</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beggar at the Feast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VelveteenThestral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelveteenThestral/gifts).



_You have the soul of a poet._

_And the bank account to match._

He'd meant it as a bit of wit, but it had been the truth then, and it was the truth now. 

No, it was worse than the truth now. With Sir Malcolm Murray's death, Victor found himself once again unemployed... or barely employed enough to scrape by would be more accurate. His old master had taken him on again, and he'd hardly had to grovel (for which he was grateful, because he wasn't at all good at it). But the pay was next to nothing, and he was behind on his rent and although his landlord was surprisingly tolerant of the haphazard nature of payments, (Victor never caused any trouble, after all, not like some of the tenants... if the man only knew but thank all the gods that he didn't) he was starting to make noises that sounded a little too much like 'eviction'.

Victor could _not_ lose his lodgings. If he did, he would also lose his laboratory, and then where would he be? Not that he was working on anything in particular at the moment; he found himself at a loss in the wake of Brona's death at his hands and subsequent resurrection. She'd been a success beyond what he had hoped for, beyond what he'd even allowed himself to dare to dream of. But hand in hand with that went the fact that she hadn't needed him like the others had. She had eyes only for Ethan, and when it became clear that she was coming back to herself even more quickly than Proteus had, he'd taken her home, or at least away, and Victor had scarcely seen them since. 

He'd gone from being in the thick of things, being someone of value, of worth, someone with skills to offer that couldn't be found elsewhere... to being nothing at all. Just another man with a bloody knife, as Ethan had called him, or something like. A man alone, alone with books of poetry and Shakespeare and science, alone with his own thoughts, and not nearly enough morphine to damp it down.

_Is it an addiction?_

_Yes._

_Caused by what?_

_Pain._

He was running out, and although he could certainly get more (he was a doctor, after all) it cost money, and there was the rent to be paid, and food to be bought, although he could do without food for a day or two if he had to, and sometimes he did because drowning out the world was more critical to survival.

He'd told Ethan and Brona to come back if there were any problems, any complications, anything that might indicate that anything was even slightly amiss with her. They hadn't been back, and that was a good sign, he assumed, but it left him lonely. Lonely as he had been when he was a child and his brothers had all been out playing, and even on the days when asthma didn't keep him inside he wasn't invited to join in.

Lonely in a way that he'd sought to fill by creating a companion, a friend who wouldn't turn on him, wouldn't... But it didn't matter, because he'd failed. He'd failed twice over, three times, even as he'd succeeded. Caliban had asked him for an immortal mate, someone to love, and when he'd realized that he couldn't have what he wanted, he'd told Victor to pull the trigger, that it would be a mercy.

And he'd done it. He hadn't known until his first creation, his first born, was lying sprawled in front of him, blood soaking the floor (the stain was still there despite hours of scrubbing) that he would do it, that he could, but he had. Because the alternative was even more monstrous, and he knew that he couldn't go through with it, couldn't do that to his friends (were they friends? He'd told Proteus they weren't friends, more like passing acquaintances, that friends were something else), that Ethan would never forgive him, that _Brona_ would never forgive him, and if it didn't work, Caliban would have taken away everything, _everything_ he held dear (which was precious little, but he'd discovered that the monster had a knack for finding things he didn't even know mattered until they were gone) so he'd breathed in, breathed out while gently squeezing the trigger, and ended it all.

In his darker moments, he thought that perhaps he would have been wiser to turn the gun on himself in the aftermath, but then Ethan wouldn't still have Brona, would he? And they were happy, so he'd done something good, something right.

But what use was he now? What purpose did he serve?

He told himself it was just the withdrawal talking, but its voice was loud and difficult to ignore, especially when he wasn't sleeping well, if at all.

Victor's feet scuffed the stones of the street as he wandered, avoiding home because he'd promised to pay what he owed today, and he didn't have it, and the longer he could put it off the better. Not that his landlord was going to forget, but maybe if it got too late he would give up, and maybe tomorrow he would have it, if he could just...

What? If he could just what? 

He didn't know.

But it was too cold to stay out indefinitely, and finally he resigned himself to facing what had to be faced, rehearsing in his mind what he would say, what excuse he would make, what tale he could tell (but he was a terrible liar when it came right down to it) to buy himself another day or two.

When he arrived back at his lodgings, there was someone waiting for him, but not his landlord. "What's wrong?" he asked, looking not so much at the American as the empty place at his side. "Where is she?"

"She's at home," Ethan said. "She doesn't like the cold much."

"Does she feel it?" Victor asked. "I suppose she must, but one can't be sure, and I never thought to ask."

"I don't know if she feels it more than she did before, or less, or just the same," Ethan said, "but she didn't want to come out and I wasn't going to make her. But we thought you might... well, we just wanted to say thank you, and thought you might appreciate something more than just words."

It was only then that Victor noticed that Ethan was holding a basket, and it looked ridiculous in his hands, but he didn't seem at all self-conscious about it. And why should he be? He could just glare at anyone who thought about saying anything about it. 

"It's nothing special," Ethan said, handing it over. "Bread, cheese, fruit."

 _Where did you get the money?_ , Victor wanted to ask, but Miss Ives liked him, and could likely find uses for him that she didn't have for the doctor, so perhaps he was still in her employ. "Thank you," he said.

"You'll forgive me for saying so, Doc, but you look like hell."

Victor imagined that he did. He hadn't looked in a mirror lately, but he knew what lack of sleep did to him, and he hadn't gotten more than an hour or two at a time in... he couldn't remember how long, and what sleep he did manage was riddled with nightmares. "How kind of you to say," he replied, sour and sardonic.

"Have you been all right?" Ethan asked. 

"Nothing this won't help with," Victor told him. "Thank you again." He fumbled in his pocket for the key to the door, and remembered how Professor Van Helsing had commented on his steady hands. They weren't steady now, and he could blame the fact that he was trying to balance the basket while managing the lock, but that wasn't really the issue.

He finally got it open, and it didn't really surprise him that the American barged in behind him without so much as a by-your-leave. He took the basket back from Victor as he followed him into the laboratory. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked. 

"Asking again won't change the answer," Victor snapped. "Nor will following me like a lost puppy dog. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, it is misplaced. I am getting on splendidly, but really, I'm a busy man and—"

Ethan was smiling, his eyes sparkling like he was only just managing to hold back a laugh. "That so," he said.

"That's so," Victor told him. "So unless there's something that I can help you with..." His eyes flicked to the door, a silent dismissal that he suspected Ethan would notice and blatantly ignore.

"Actually, there is something," Ethan said. "A message from a rather squirrely man who came out to speak to me not long after I arrived. Something about was I a friend of yours and did I know when you'd be home, and if I happened to see you could I kindly remind you that the rent is due? And I have to say, Doc, if that's what you're paying for the privilege of living in this place..."

Victor looked up sharply. "What?"

"The figure he quoted when I asked how much it was—"

"Why the _fuck_ would you ask that?" Victor snarled.

"—was a lot more than what I would expect for the, uh, area, even taking into account that you've got this space here as well as whatever apartment you keep."

Victor's cheeks burned. He wasn't going to admit that it was several weeks of rent that Ethan had been quoted, and for all he knew a percentage on top of that. "You didn't answer my question."

"It's paid for now, anyway," Ethan said blithely. "You're welcome." And there was that smile again, and it mocked Victor whether it was intended to or not.

His muscles tensed his shoulders drawing up toward his ears, but to what purpose? It wasn't as if he was going to start a fight, and if he did, he hadn't a chance in the world of winning. "I don't need your charity." He reached into his pocket, pulled out the coins and notes that had been intended for his landlord and thrust them at Ethan. "Here."

"Charity?" Ethan shook his head, his hands up as if in surrender. "It's not charity."

Victor kept his hand stubbornly extended, silently insisting that Ethan take the money. He did not need to owe anyone anything, even if he was certain there was no expectation of repayment.

But Ethan reached out and folded Victor's hand in his own, pushing it back toward his chest. "I owe you a debt that I can never repay. A little bit of money to get you out of a bind is the least I can do." 

Further argument would be futile. It was like trying to reason with a brick wall. A well-intentioned brick wall, but still. "Fine. You've done it, and you have my thanks. But I need to get on with it." He gestured vaguely, as if to indicate some important bit of research that he was engaged in. 

"Sure, of course," Ethan said amiably. "I also just wanted to let you know we've all relocated – Miss Ives and Miss... Missus? I'm not sure how that works out at this point... Harker and Brona and me. You're welcome any time, to stay as long as you like. The gentleman who's given us his hospitality says he wished to discuss offering you his patronage, I believe was the world, as well, to fund your research. If you're interested." He put a card into Victor's hand, and then tipped his hat. "We'll see you soon, I hope."

"Like hell," Victor grumbled, but only after Ethan was already gone. He stuffed the card into his pocket, meaning to burn it later, when he had a fire in which to do so. At least now he had the money for it, and for other... essentials.

That night he was warm, and fed, and as he felt the morphine slide through his veins, he even managed to relax a little. He pulled the card from his pocket and looked at the address, and his heart skipped a beat. 

_There_? They were living _there_ , with _him_? Obviously he'd known about Miss Ives and Mister Gray; that had been the whole reason (or at least the reason he was willing to admit to to the footman) he'd gone to that house in the first place. And when Vanessa had been possessed, when she'd said every crass, hurtful thing she could think of, she'd attacked Ethan with implications of his own involvement with the man, which had been confirmed by Mister Gray himself. But he hadn't been under the impression that it had been anything other than a one-time dalliance in either case. Yet now they were living there.

Victor tossed the card into the fire. "Like hell," he muttered again.

But then cold descended on the city and tightened like a noose, and although he managed to keep a roof over his head, he couldn't heat it to a point where he was able to remove his jacket, and he could feel his chest constricting with each icy breath, like it had when he was a child, and an edge of panic crept into every thought, every motion. Nightmares plagued him, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent night's sleep. Except he could, he could remember exactly even if some of the details were fuzzy, and that was the problem. Flames had consumed the card, but the image of it was seared into his brain alongside memories of a night that had been at once unsettling and the closest thing he'd had to peace in as long as he could remember.

And then he didn't get paid, and his landlord came knocking, and although he'd been inclined to be patient before, he wasn't any longer, and he gave Victor one day, and one day only, to get what was owed him, or he would find himself out on the street.

He couldn't afford to do anything but walk. At least it got his blood moving, even as the wind bit into his cheeks and nipped the tips of his ears. Would that he had the stocking cap he'd given Proteus now... 

The thought ached like an old wound that wouldn't heal.

 _It won't hurt to talk to him_ , Victor told himself. _He offered his patronage, and so what if you don't know what interest he could possibly have in your work? Money is money, and if nothing else, he'll probably feed you._

And if that fell through, well, perhaps Ethan could spare something to help him get by for a little while longer.

He lifted the knocker and rapped it twice, then stood with his physician's bag at his side, trying to appear relaxed when his insides were in knots. He hadn't thought about what he was going to say, what business he was going to state when he was asked. Could he just say that he was there to see Mister Dorian Gray? Perhaps he should ask for Ethan instead, or Miss Ives. At least they knew him.

Not that Mister Gray didn't know him. Mister Gray knew him altogether too well. But he didn't _know_ him, and if the rumors were to be believed, he was only one of many. There was a better than even chance that the man wouldn't remember him at all.

The door opened, and Victor saw the man take in his bag almost before he took in Victor himself, and a flicker of concern passed over his features, presumably for whatever inhabitant of the house might have been in need of a doctor. 

"Frankenstein," Victor said. The word scraped in his throat. "Victor Frankenstein."

And then the concern was gone. "Ah yes. Come in. Everyone is out or occupied at the moment, I'm afraid, but I can show you to your room?"

"My...?" 

"This way, sir," the man said, and Victor stumbled over the threshold as he stepped inside. He couldn't even get his thoughts in order enough to object; he just followed mutely as he was led up a wide staircase to the second floor, to a bedroom that was larger than his flat, and significantly better appointed. "Feel free to settle in. Shall I have tea sent up?"

Victor opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and finally managed, "Yes. Please. That would... yes."

"And something to eat, sir?"

"If it's not too much trouble. Thank you."

"No trouble at all, sir. Make yourself at home."

And then he was gone, and Victor was alone in the room. He sat on the bed, then stood up again and began to look around. There wasn't much to see; all of the drawers and shelves were empty, and yet there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. Someone had been keeping the room clean, apparently in anticipation of his arrival, even though he'd given Ethan no indication that he had any attention of ever arriving.

The tea arrived, and food with it, including some of the little cakes that he'd had the first time he was here. It was set on a table, and the servant who had brought it disappeared without a word. Victor sat down in a chair in front of the fire... which he only then realized was lit, despite the fact that the room had not been occupied until his arrival only moments before.

Presumptuous, and yet...

Victor ate and drank and then opened his bag. He was finally warm enough take off his jacket, and roll up his sleeve, and for a little while he just let it all go.

He woke up hours later, disoriented and trying to blink away the last shreds of a nightmare. A glance out the window told him that it was night, possibly late night, but it got dark so early it was hard to tell. The tray had been taken away, so someone had been in, but he'd slept right through it. Now he was restless, but where could he go?

He paced the room, wondering if anyone was going to come looking for him, but no one did, and finally he couldn't take it anymore. He'd been told to make himself at home. He was damn well going to make himself at home.

Victor opened the door and stepped into the hallway, wondering which direction Mister Gray's bedroom lay in... not because he wanted to go there, but just because it was the one of the only rooms he'd actually seen on his previous visit. But none of it looked familiar, so he just wandered, trying doors and peering into the ones that weren't locked.

"Ah!" A voice behind him made him whirl around like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. "I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to wake."

"Mister Gray," Victor said.

The man's smile flickered, his forehead furrowing just a little. "Dorian, please," he said. "Has anyone shown you around the place?" 

"No," Victor said. "They showed me to my room, made sure I had something to eat." He shrugged. 

"Good. I left instructions." Dorian turned. "Come. I'll show you around. I would hate to have you get lost."

Victor followed, not sure how to politely decline, and curious in any case. Dorian led him down the stairs to the main floor, pointing out various rooms but he seemed to have a destination in mind, so the tour was cursory at best.

They reached the back of the house and he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked a door, leading him down another set of stairs to the basement. He flipped a lever, and the space lit up, the air buzzing with an electric hum. "I just had it wired. I gather that it's critical to your work. Otherwise, it's a bit sparse, but anything you need we'll move from your old lab—"

"So you assumed that I would show up," Victor said.

Dorian looked at him and smiled again. "I hoped," he said gently. 

"Why?" The word came out more sharply than he meant, but maybe it was better that way. Better not to give Mister Gray – Dorian – the wrong idea. Whatever that might be. Because now, looking into his eyes, he remembered more of that night, and the morning after. It wasn't as if he'd tried to forget, only that so much had happened, it had gotten pushed to the back of mind. And with memory came feelings. He tamped them down, stuffed them back where they belonged, and glared.

"I've got the rest of your merry band of misfits here," Dorian said with a chuckle. "It seems only right that you should be here, too."

"And that's all?" 

"It's all if you want it to be all," Dorian said. 

"Good," Victor said. "Because that night... it was just that night." 

"I understand," Dorian said. "I had no expectations in that regard, although of course if you do decide that you're in need of company, you know where to find me." There was that smile again, that came so easily to his lips.

Lips that Victor remembered kissing, kissing until he was breathless and dizzy with it. And it had felt so good... He shook his head, trying to clear it. 

"As I was saying, we'll arrange to have equipment brought from your old laboratory, along with your other things. Clothing, books, whatever you wish to keep. I'll send for it tomorrow, unless there's anything you need urgently?"

"I didn't say I was staying," Victor said.

"No," Dorian said, "you didn't. Why don't I finish the tour?" He turned and went back up the stairs, leaving Victor to flip the lever and shut down the currents that illuminated the room. He went back up the stairs, glancing behind him into the gloom before shutting the door.

Victor followed Dorian through the drawing room with its floor to ceiling portraits, and down a short hall to another room. He pushed open the doors and turned, bowing to Victor with a flourish. "The library."

The doctor followed him in and immediately drew in a breath. He didn't think he'd ever seen this many books in one place in his life, and certainly not in a private home. He could feel Dorian's eyes on him, but he couldn't look away from the shelves, row upon row of embossed spines, with a ladder on a brass track that allowed access to the upper shelves. 

"I'll have tea sent in," Dorian said, "and leave you here to think over your decision."

"Yes," Victor said, distracted. "Yes, thank you."

When the tea arrived, along with everything else there was a key... _the_ key, the one that unlocked the door to the laboratory, _his_ laboratory if he wanted it, and access to all of these books, and a warm bed, food... 

Was there really a decision to make? It was everything he'd hoped for with Sir Malcolm as a patron, wasn't it? Did it matter that instead his financial backing would come from another source, who just _happened_ to be the person he'd offered up his virginity to? It wasn't as if it had _meant_ anything. Just another experiment, purely biological. 

He lost himself for the second time that day, but this time in words rather than in narcotics, picking up one book and reading a paragraph, putting it back and picking up another, until he found the poetry, and then he pulled down several volumes at once, carrying them to a couch and flopping onto it, finding old favorites along with things he'd never read. 

The clock chimed midnight, and then one, and his eyes burned with fatigue but he kept reading. Sometime after two, the library door opened and Dorian came in, carrying a lamp. He looked startled to find Victor still there. "Can't sleep?" he asked.

"Haven't tried," Victor said. "You?"

"I was just looking for something to read before bed," Dorian replied. "Any suggestions?"

Victor sifted through the books that had piled up around him and handed over a volume of Wordsworth. 

"Thank you," Dorian said. "You remember the way back to your room?"

"I remember," Victor said, even though he wasn't actually sure that he did. He would figure it out, if he bothered to go to bed at all. Nothing waited for him there but nightmares. He turned a page, even though he wasn't seeing the words anymore, and waited for Dorian to leave... but he didn't.

He finally looked up, and got caught in Dorian's gaze. "I could stay," Dorian said quietly, "if you'd rather not be alone."

 _Will you stay the night?_ , he'd asked.

 _May I?_ , Victor had answered. 

_I'd like it very much._

_So would I._

Victor blinked. "Would you?"

"Here, or upstairs?"

"I'm not going to fuck you again," Victor said, wanting to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

"As ever, I am guided completely by your wishes," Dorian said. "Only tell me what they are."

"Sleep," Victor said. "I only want to sleep, but I close my eyes and..." He shook his head. 

"Does it help, to have someone else there?" Dorian asked. 

"It did," Victor admitted.

"Come, then," Dorian said, offering him a hand. "Leave the books, unless you want to bring some along."

Victor left them, since Dorian still had the one he'd given him tucked under his arm. He just took Dorian's hand and allowed himself to be pulled up, then let go. However discreet his staff might be, Victor wasn't quite ready to have rumors flying about the house... even if he knew that he was going to end up in Dorian's bedroom, in Dorian's bed. They didn't need to advertise it along the way.

"Which is your favorite?" Dorian asked, paging through the book after they were settled under the covers. 

Victor took the book and flipped through, stopping when he found it. "This one here."

"Ah yes." Dorian slid his arm around the young man, pulling him close so that Victor's head fell against his shoulder, and he began to read, his voice sliding over Victor. He let his eyes close, just listening, the rise and fall of his chest lulling him. 

And even as darkness rose up and claimed him, he knew he'd already made his decision. He was home.


End file.
